


seven card stud

by Mythopoeia



Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [279]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alcohol, Cards, Cousins Being Dumb, Crossdressing, F/M, Gambling, Gen, Humor, Oh Dear, Poker, Strip Poker, This is set shortly before finrod has his Intellectual Awakening(tm), also copious amounts of alcohol consumption, back when he was Mae’s partner in almost-crime, but uh now here is the longer version enjoy, copious amounts of self-indulgent Victorian nonsense, finrod referenced this story to Fingon like 150 fics ago, lets see what else to tag, oh now we have your attention I see, teenage mischief, the year is 1847
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:34:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25772914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mythopoeia/pseuds/Mythopoeia
Summary: Maedhros paused, expectantly. Finrod sighed, laughed a rueful laugh, and shook his head.“We shall stay not a minute past nine-thirty,” he warned, wagging one threatening finger across the table at his grinning cousin. Maedhros, triumphant, reached for the decanter.“Of course!” He agreed readily, as he poured out a new glass. “Of course, Finrod! On my honor.”Or: That Time The Eldest Boys Played Strip Poker And What Happened Next
Relationships: Finrod Felagund | Findaráto & Maedhros | Maitimo
Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [279]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1300685
Comments: 9
Kudos: 19





	seven card stud

“No, I don’t think I shall,” said Finrod, sipping at his Madeira. The chill of the glass in his fingers, so welcome after the humidity of the afternoon streets, left cold condensation on his hand; he wiped it delicately upon his trouser leg. 

Across the table, Maedhros made a little sound of dismay.

“But Finrod! I already sent my card to Miss Tibbs saying I shall attend!”

“You might have checked in on me first, if my going with you was so important,” said Finrod, shrugging. “I already have plans with Aegnor; I am taking him to the theater.”

“Oh! But that’s all right then, if it is only Aegnor; you can put off the engagement a week. He is only a baby, still.”

Finrod would have defended his little brother’s eleven-year-old honor, except their conversation was at that point interrupted by a friend of Grandfather Finwe’s who, spying them both at their table in the corner of the library, took upon himself to say hello and shake hands, inquiring after Maedhros’ studies. Finrod, while not quite ignored, faded into the periphery of conversation after the most perfunctory of pleasantries, and made use of the opportunity to return to the magazine he had been reading. The experience of finding himself relegated in public to being a lesser satellite to his cousin’s greater celestial being was not an unusual one; indeed, Finrod generally found the experience to be more amusing than vexing. He listened with half an ear to how his cousin made charming answer to the gentleman’s questions, and sipped again at his drink. 

Before Maedhros began his residency with Grandfather Finwe four years previously, Finrod had for all intents and purposes _been_ Finwe’s eldest grandson to the eyes of New York. He had thus spent his own fair share of time being much fawned over, particularly in the aftermath of his isolated early childhood, marred as it had been by a difficult and extended recovery from scarlet fever. When he had at last emerged hale enough to attend school and to accompany his family to functions, Finrod had found a world eager to fall over itself to please him: teachers arranged for upperclassmen to assist him with assignments, so that he might not strain his eyes and mind, and he was forbidden the exercise yard for fear of over-exertion, instead being kept entertained indoors by flipping through encyclopediae and atlases and drawing pictures in a sketchbook his father made for him. City luminaries would approach him at galas to offer food or drink they thought might tempt him, and to congratulate his parents on his return to health. His only grief, in that time, had been that his stout little playmate from the time before his illness, his cousin Fingon, no longer knew him, and had taken up a howling wolf cub game that Finrod himself was somehow excluded from.

While some boys might have been angered by the arrival of an uneducated elder cousin from the country who promptly took their entire circle of society by storm, Finrod had not begrudged Maedhros for taking the same first place in the eyes of the city that he had previously taken in the heart of their younger cousin. It might have been different, if Maedhros had seemed to have any designs on popularity, but he had always been a generous boy, well-mannered and eager to please, and the charm and magnetism he possessed was as natural and unoffensive as the color of his hair. Furthermore, he had been just as desirous of befriending Finrod as the rest of society was desirous of befriending _him_ , and they had made a merry time of it since, in mischief and in accomplishment, as they navigated their way through high society adolescence together. It was better, after all, to be a satellite to mighty Jupiter than to be poor Pluto in solitary orbit alone.

By now, as they teetered recklessly upon the edge of adulthood, their peers viewed Finrod as a set with his elder cousin, and as any function could not be called a success without Maedhros Feanorian making an appearance, Finrod also found himself invited to every dance, dinner, and garden party on the social calendar. Such attention was of course flattering to a young man of barely eighteen, if also a little overwhelming. Even more flattering was the way Maedhros himself seemed to encourage their public association, even to the extent of taking it upon himself to cajole Finrod into accepting invitations he otherwise would not. 

“But it shall be so dreary, to go alone,” Maedhros insisted, returning to his theme as soon as the inquisitive gentleman had left them alone again, and this time with a look that made him look as plaintive as a saint. The amber light of the club’s library lamps, softened as it was by the haze of cigar smoke in the air, made a burnished aureole of his hair as he leaned across the table.

“You needn’t even stay late, I promise; I don’t mean to. I shall make both our excuses to Miss Tibbs, no fuss at all.”

“ _You?_ Leave a party _early?_ ”

“I won’t stay a minute past ten o’clock, I promise. The very idea is abhorrent. There won’t be anyone there worth talking to, without you, so I shan’t be tempted.”

“Violet Tibbs. Weren’t you stepping out with her just last year?” Finrod countered, turning the page of his magazine. “Why should an evening in her company be so dreary a prospect now?”

“Who told you I was stepping out with her?”

“It was her boorish brother, I believe. Clement. Said he saw the two of you dancing, at the Christmas gala.”

“Oh, that.” Maedhros leaned back in his armchair again, and gestured grandly with his left hand, the one not occupied with a whiskey-glass. “Clement is a gossip; I’ve danced with plenty of girls. It does not mean that I was _courting_ them.”

Finrod was being delicate; _dancing_ was decidedly not the word Clement had used. But he set aside his magazine, tired of the parade of uninspired fashion plates coming out of London, and took up his own wineglass again with a sigh.

“Of course not,” he agreed, and let the matter lie there. “But even so. I am insulted, if you think you can make me believe you cannot hold your own at a dinner party among friends. Do you think I am stupid, Maedhros?”

“Not at all! And I dare say I _could_ hold my own, it shall just be no fun without you, cousin. No fun at all.”

“Why me? Why not take Fingon with you? Or Maglor?”

“Maglor has a recital on the Friday next, and shall not be drawn from his preparations. And _Fingon!_ At a private party with ladies! _Really_ , Finrod.”

Finrod raised one eyebrow. Maedhros, incorrigible, raised one back.

“I see,” Finrod said, very dry. Maedhros coughed.

“You know Clement is not yet back from Europe, and her parents are gone for the next week to visit an aunt in Boston. This is Violet’s coming out, in a fashion; her first time acting hostess. I could not with good conscience refuse to support her with my presence—nor should you, as you are a gentleman. Oh, go on, do say you will come. I know you want to. I can see you smiling.”

Finrod _was_ smiling, at his cousin’s wheedling. He could feel his resolve weakening like a child’s fingers being tenderly prised from around a sweet.

“A quiet dinner with good conversation, and a pleasant evening with friends? I know you shall enjoy yourself. Look, I shall even pay for Aegnor’s theater excursion myself, to make up for his inconveniencing—and I shall throw in a little extra pocket money for him, too, if that pleases you. You needn’t say it’s from me.”

Maedhros paused, expectantly. Finrod sighed, laughed a rueful laugh, and shook his head.

“We shall stay not a minute past nine-thirty,” he warned, wagging one threatening finger across the table at his grinning cousin. Maedhros, triumphant, reached for the decanter. 

“Of course!” He agreed readily, as he poured out a new glass. “Of course, Finrod! On my honor.”

*

“There’s the ten o’clock bell!” cried Violet, springing up from the sofa. Her pretty, plump cheeks were made even prettier by the rosiness the gin had put there; she had been hilarious for the last quarter-hour, and quite outshone every other woman present. That had likely been her plan in making the guest list, Finrod thought pleasantly, lolling more comfortably back on his own settee. None of the other ladies were anywhere near as well-dressed as she, nor as comely in voice and feature. Maedhros himself, despite his flippancy at the club the day before, had been paying her much attention. 

“What, already?” Was that cousin’s intelligent exclamation now, struggling up from where Violet’s sudden departure had toppled him back into the lace-draped sofa cushions. Extricating himself, he laughed, a little breathless.

“Goodness, and there I was thinking it could not be far past eight! You have an illustrious career of entertaining ahead of you, Violet dear. I haven’t had such a pleasant evening since—why, I cannot even recall.”

_Nor I_ , and _Hear, hear,_ came the chorus of agreement from the rest of the company, all of them arrayed about the parlor in various forms of frivolity. Finrod, only lately free from a lively debate upon south-western politics, had fallen into a slight doze. A couple of women he did not know were engrossed in conversation with of couple of men whom he did. Violet’s friend Louisa was pouring out the last of the coffee, and animatedly comparing the quality of her gown’s ribbons with the lace of the girl next to her, who was polishing off the last of the cake. Charles Macy, a wearisome fellow Finrod had taken classes with for years, had found a book of French poetry somewhere, and was loudly reading pieces of whichever caught his fancy, to no one in particular. Lawrence and James had begun an impromptu game of cards upon one of the end tables, in the space between their empty coffee cups. They were wagering whatever odds and ends they had in their pockets, it seemed; as Finrod watched, Lawrence handed over his silver cigar-case with a good-natured oath, and tossed his cards down in pique.

It had not been, truth be told, a party at all distinguishable from the countless others Finrod had attended in his life, not remarkably worse than average but certainly not remarkably better. Still, Maedhros loudly insisted upon its excellence, and thus the rest of the guests also thought the same. It was all their life, in a microcosm; where Maedhros walked, the ripples always followed agreeably after.

“Since we are so wide awake yet,” Violet proposed, clapping her hands, “I propose a game, to end the night. How about charades? Or cards? I’m quite the accomplished hand at poker, and we are all friends here. Clement taught me to play years ago.”

“ _This_ I did not know,” Maedhros remarked, looking impressed. “Well, I for one should like to see your accomplishments in action! Deal me in for a round. Finrod, are you in?”

Finrod, roused enough from his nap to feel sociable again, supposed he was. A handful of the other guests, looking at the clock with regret, made their excuses, taking the opportunity of the shift in activity to retire for the night. Violet was thus kept occupied for a few minutes in farewelling her friends and prettily accepting their congratulations on the evening, and then with ordering a house servant to fetch in more cards and biscuits and—at Maedhros’ urging—more whisky. To the latter, the rest of the party added additional orders of a variety of wines and gin. Finrod, already more than a little tipsy, insisted upon a new pot of coffee, also, and fresh cups; but when Maedhros offered him another claret, he did not say no.

“You are looking well, Finrod,” Maedhros laughed, raising his own glass in a toast, but he paused before drinking to meet Finrod’s gaze, a flash of subtle anxiety in his still-laughing eyes. Finrod had thought that his cousin, distracted as he was by Miss Tibbs’ company, had simply forgotten their agreed-upon curfew, and perhaps he had; still, the mass exodus had seemingly reminded him. Finrod calmed his querying look with a smile and toast of his own. He had known, really, what he had been signing up for when he sent his _rsvp_ to Miss Violet’s address; he had been Maedhros’ friend and ally long enough to know his cousin never departed any dinner party before eleven.

_Off to hell in a handbasket_ , he thought cheerfully, and drained the new glass to his cousin’s good health. Maedhros, grinning, bright-faced, leaned to pour him another.

Violet, having finished with her errands of hospitality, returned to the room trailed by a maid bearing a tray piled with playing cards. She resumed her seat upon the sofa beside Maedhros, and smiled to accept the new glass he had prepared for her, sipping at it daintily. 

There were only six of them left, now, of the guests: Maedhros, Louisa, Lawrence, that damned Charles Macy, a dark-haired girl whom Finrod was quickly reminded was named Alice, and Finrod himself. They gathered together around the card table the servants carried in, and refilled their drinks, and nibbled at the pastries, and took the hands Violet deftly dealt.

“What are we to bet with?” asked Charles Macy, rather loudly. “I haven’t any cash on me, and I refuse to play cards with _cheques_.”

“I have an idea,” Violet replied coolly, looking up from her cards with wide, guileless eyes—and then turning those eyes not upon Macy, but upon Maedhros, sitting next to her, and watching. She blinked once, slow and daring.

“What do you think,” she said, speaking to him directly, “of betting articles of clothing?”

Finrod, half-through pouring himself a respectable cup of coffee, nearly fumbled the samovar. Alice giggled nervously. Lawrence made some sort of uncouth comment about this not being the first time he played _that sort of game_ , with a leer he doubtless thought attractively rakish.

Maedhros considered, his head still a little cocked to one side, his teeth biting a little at the corner of his lips in the familiar way that Finrod knew meant he was plotting. Slowly—charmingly—beautifully, he smiled.

“If no one else here has complaint, then I certainly have none. Finrod?”

Under other circumstances, Finrod might indeed have complained. But he knew Maedhros’ question for the dare it was, and it would anyway not be the first time he had witnessed his cousin make a fool of himself in company for the sake of a lark. He set the coffee aside, and reached instead for his neglected claret.

“One moment,” he said, draining the glass, and then fought his way bravely out of the armchair so that he could sally back down the hall to the front door, where he had left his hat and coat.

When he returned to the parlor, Maedhros looked briefly consternated to see him dressed in all his outer layers, but then he laughed when Finrod resumed his place in the armchair, realizing his strategy.

“There we are,” Finrod said, feeling clever, as he settled his hat dashingly atop his head. “Very well then; now we may begin.”

*

Five minutes later, he had lost the hat.

*

A quarter of an hour after _that_ , he had also lost both gloves (one by one), his cravat, and his left cufflink.

In the next round, Violet lost her right stocking.

“Louisa, darling, would you be so kind?” She asked, and as her companion obligingly helped divest her of the offending article she looked over at Maedhros apologetically, smiling a coy cat-smile.

“I am sorry, Feanorian; I _would_ have asked for your help, but I thought your Papist sensibilities might take offense.”

“Hardly,” Maedhros returned, looking amused. “The catechism says there is only a very little amount of sin to be found in stockings, you know.”

Finrod choked on his claret, while the rest of the table broke into cheers and laughter. Charles Macy pounded the tabletop with his fist and nearly upset his scotch. Maedhros took a calm sip from his own drink, seemingly composed, but Finrod, spluttering, could see him smirk against the glass’ rim. 

_He_ had already lost coat, gloves, and stockings (both in pairs), as well as the rings off his fingers and the cravat he had tied so carefully at his throat that afternoon. Violet held them all in a little pile of trophies at her knee. His fine silver pocket watch he had successfully argued was a thing separate from the coat, and it resided now in his trouser pocket, safe for the moment.

Violet tucked her bare foot primly beneath her skirts, and rang the bell to call for more drinks for the guests, and Finrod accepted his next hand with a nod of thanks as he tried to work out the muzzy geometry to decide whether he would rather risk his remaining cuff link or a stocking of his own, this time. 

*

Dark-haired Alice folded every round, and thus did not remove so much as a stitch. 

Finrod, not wanting to seem a coward, took enough risks to keep clear conscience, and managed the loss of his clothing as responsibly as he could, drunk as he was.

Maedhros never folded once.

*

“Judging by the urchin look of you, Feanorian,” Violet announced as she passed him his next hand, “You have nearly paupered yourself. It will not be long before you must fold by necessity, for decency’s sake!”

Maedhros looked down at himself, clad only in shirt and trousers in contrast to everyone else’s much more modest state of dress, and laughed.

“Well; I’ll bet my shirt this time then, I suppose,” Maedhros said, sipping at his drink. Violet gave him a peculiar, arch look, which Finrod did not much care to decipher. Instead he reluctantly wagered his shoes—both of them together, for one remaining would be worse than useless without the other. 

“You still have the watch,” Violet reminded his cousin, still with that look. Maedhros smiled.

“So I do,” he said, and offered nothing more.

*

When Maedhros divested himself of that shirt one loss later, shrugging out of it as carelessly as if he had been shucking off a coat in the country, Lawrence made a sarcastic cheer. More than one of the girls looked as if they would like join in.

“I have never in my life,” Finrod remarked as he unbuttoned his own vest, “seen you play such a bad night of poker as you have played tonight.”

“Unlucky, I suppose,” Maedhros said happily, and handed his shirt over to Violet’s waiting hands.

*

“That watch in your pocket, next,” Violet said sweetly, reaching out one hand, but Maedhros shook his head, leaning teasingly back on one hand, long legs extended. The fiddle bow of his collarbone slanted down, then up; the lean, strong lines of his body thus exposed were pale and fine as any Grecian statue, but with a lively poetry of motion that was all the Celt. 

“My trousers, this time,” he answered, just as sweetly, and folded his hands behind his head with a jaunty whistle.

*

“You may still fold, Maedhros,” Violet said, when she and he were, once again, the only two left in the round. Finrod, having lost his way down to shirtsleeves and trousers himself three rounds prior, had folded every round since—excepting only the time he chanced betting his shirt, confident in the flush in his hand. _Maedhros_ had folded that round, the first time he had all evening. It had been an unusual blight upon a string of winning that had come to him late in the game, repeatedly saving him from being stripped entirely. Lawrence was still more than half-dressed and Alice had excused herself from the game entirely early on; Louisa had lost her nerve after she lost her gloves, and had dared lose nothing since. Charles Macy, having lost a haphazard collection of clothing and drunk three full glasses of port in quick succession, lay snoring upon the rug.

“I said, you may fold,” Violet repeated, looking disheveled but still lovely with all her petticoats gone. She waved her cards at him, taunting. 

Maedhros, looking her squarely in the eyes, tipping back his chin with a smirk, called her bluff.

In Violet’s hand: Four kings.

In Maedhros’: a single pair of threes.

*

That, of course, was the end of the game. To have Maedhros Feanorian in one’s parlor half naked was one kind of scandal; to have him there entirely naked was another sort entirely. Still, Violet insisted: those striped olive trousers were hers by right, and if Maedhros would not trade her his watch for them then there was nothing to be done but to request him to remove the offending clothing privately in another room. 

“Fair enough,” Finrod agreed, “but he can hardly make his way home dressed only in a pocket watch. Haven’t you anything of Clement’s he could borrow?”

“That would scarcely be punishment at all!” Violet protested, considering, and then she clapped her hands together with a laugh, reaching out to catch Maedhros by his wrist. 

“Here is a solution for you,” she cried, “I shall be more than generous. You may have your pick of my own clothing to wear, for your journey home—any frock you like, any gown, I shall hold nothing back. You remember your way to my chambers, surely?”

“Of course,” Maedhros replied immediately, and perhaps he really was not as sober as he seemed, for he did not seem to notice the slip. “I have my pick of the lot, you say—even hats and scarves? Even jewels? It seems hardly a bad trade, for these old things.”

“Oh good God,” Lawrence muttered, rolling his eyes as though by blasphemy he made a philosophical point.

“Anything you wish,” Violet repeated, magnanimously. Maedhros stretched languorously and then climbed to his feet, only slightly unsteady, and put his hands in his pockets with a satisfied air. The effect taken in combination with his lack of shirt and shoes was ludicrous; Finrod—who had been distracted by amusing memories of when in their younger years Maedhros had successfully fit into one of Grandmother Indis’ corsets on a dare—could not contain a snort of mirth. 

“I shall need assistance hooking the buttons,” Maedhros called over his bare shoulder as he departed the room, utterly shameless, and Violet smiled as she sprang up—smiled wider, when she saw Louisa spring up also a second too slowly.

“I shall help,” she called virtuously, and hastened after him.

The silence their departure left was deafening; Louisa sat down again quickly, her face red. Finrod, feeling himself adrift, cast about feebly for a diverting topic.

“So,” he began, smiling brightly, “I did mean to ask this earlier, but are any of you lot interested in finding a space at the waterfront for the steamboat race next month? Maedhros insists it shall be easier to wait for news at the club and avoid the crowd, but I should dearly like to see the spectacle myself, and if you are interested in making a party of it then he might be persuaded. What an American, eh? That Vanderbilt.”

*

“Here is a puzzle!” Maedhros announced cheerily to the waiting company as he re-entered the parlor. He was remarkably free of skirts and furbelows—even more remarkably, he was still free of very nearly any clothing altogether. Clad only in his trousers, he gestured exaggeratedly at his state of undress as he turned to his cousin: “I shall have to make my way home in pauper’s weeds after all, Finrod; we have determined I shan’t be able to fit into any of Miss Tibb’s dresses without a rather major miracle. A mercy that autumn is late this year! The chill will not be intolerable, so long as we walk briskly. I don’t suppose you could loan me your coat?”

“Maedhros, you cannot be serious,” Finrod protested, not certain what was most to blame for the laughter he was struggling to suppress: the mental image of his tall red haired cousin sprinting pell-mell through the streets in only his pants, or the goggling looks Alice and Louisa were making, as they were undoubtedly imagining the same.

“As if I would ever loan you my coat! In any case, my coat was the very first article I lost, after my hat. I am no help to you at all, I am afraid. Miss Tibbs, if you would be so kind as to reunite my wayward cousin with his clothes—“

“I think not,” Violet answered breezily, reappearing in the doorway still a little pink faced from what had no doubt been a mighty tussle with buttons and stays: “my victory is made hollow, if I am to return everything I won after not even an hour’s triumph. And that after I have already made an allowance for the trousers! _I_ shall not be made a Pyrrhus in my own house!”

“Oh but I say,” Finrod began, frowning, but Maedhros hushed him with one hand.

“Never let it be said that Finwe’s grandsons are men who go back on their word! Don’t beg on my behalf, Finrod, there’s a good fellow. I shouldn’t be able to hold my head up in company again, if I were to break a promise to a lady. And particularly to a lady such as yourself, Violet dear,” he added, with a dazzling smile towards the mistress of the house.

“Never let it be said Finwe’s grandsons were caught naked in the High Street, either,” Finrod said wryly, folding his arms over his shirtfront. Maedhros glanced back at him with brows askance, and then paused, considering.

“Your silk evening gown, Violet, the one with the lavender print. Upon reflection, I do think that it just might fit.”

“Oh, now you _are_ being silly. That was the second one we tried on you, don’t you remember?”

“I was not,” Maedhros said, a beautifully wicked grin beginning to grow, “proposing that it fit me.”

*

“This is unfair,” said Finrod. “I did not lose anywhere near as often as you did.”

“It is not my fault I am the bigger of us two! And we are the same blood, anyway; we win and lose as one. Speaking of losing, you might have at least contrived to have kept your shoes; the cobblestones shall be murder barefooted.”

“Oh, as if your Brobdingnagian feet would ever fit in them!”

“Gracious, Finrod, language! You _are_ cross.”

“I am not _cross_ , I am only—do you think she would allow me a shawl, if I were to ask? Perhaps if you asked. These damn shoulders—“

“Are a trifle wanton, yes— _ow, Finrod_ —“

(A scuffle, from within the chamber.)

“Very well,” said Maedhros at last, a little breathless, “I shall make the inquiry, and we shall call it a truce. Agreed?”

“Agreed. Now help me hook these buttons.”

“Of course, my Lilliputian.”

(This time, the resounding thump of a snatched up cushion being solidly flung into a grinning cousin’s offending face, and then a whisper of stifled giggling and swearing, together.)

*

“I shall send a maid round in the morning,” Violet said, laughing, “to retrieve the gown. Mind you don’t whisk it through any puddles!”

This was a joke, as Finrod’s bare legs, already long enough he needed to have all his clothes specially tailored in the city, were exposed well above his ankles by the skirts. He began a bow, then thought better of it and lowered into a tripping curtesy on the doorstep instead as he promised to take the utmost care. Maedhros attempted an aborted bow of his own, was stymied by the tight fit of Finrod’s clothes, and straightened up with a very indecorous grin, open shirt-front flapping.

“You might come yourself,” he suggested, with a wicked show of innocence, and she swatted at his arm in mock offense.

“The mouth on you!” She cried, laughing. “And the cheek, to suggest _I_ be the one to come calling, when you could be the gentlemen and return it yourself!”

“Oh, well, maybe I shall,” he agreed, and raised her hand to his lips before she shut the door at last, smiling.

It was very dark, and very quiet, with the door shut. 

Maedhros turned to Finrod and seemed to take in anew the entire sight of him, under the lamplight. His mouth spasmed, as he attempted to contain his reaction. Violet’s house was a good fifteen minute walk from Valinor Park, and another five to Feanor’s house there. Not a difficult stroll, under normal circumstances. A pleasant constitutional, in fact, beneath spreading trees and well-tended lamps.

“After you,” Maedhros said at last, his composure regained except for the damn Irish twinkle in his eyes.

Finrod, dignified, picked up his skirts, tripped down the steps, and wove his unsteady way out onto the public street.

*

“I do think she could have at least allowed us our coats,” said Finrod.

They had been walking abreast in silence for the last ten minutes, too focused on both not falling and not catching sight of each other to attempt any kind of conversation. Thanks to a merciful combination of the late hour and good luck, they had not encountered any other pedestrians, only a handful of cabs which rattled past without lingering long enough to get a good look. Finrod, nearly tripping yet again when he attempted to take too-long a stride in his skirts, swore silently that he should be more sympathetic to Artanis’ dislike of dresses in future, and shivered as the night breeze ran across his bare throat.

“I’ll collect them in the morning,” Maedhros replied, cheerily. “You may sleep in late as you like, and lunch with us, too, so that you needn’t go home in only your shirtsleeves. Unless you would rather keep the dress? It is rather—fetching.”

“God damn you, Maitimo,” was all Finrod could reply to _that_ , and that was at last too much for Maedhros’ self control. He broke into helpless laughter, staggering, and Finrod could hardly have kept from laughing himself, once Maedhros had cracked. He buried his face in his hands, shaking, caught between the horror of someone hearing them and seeing them dressed as they were, and the whole farcical absurdity of the situation. He had drunk rather too much, he thought, fleetingly and cheerfully; he always did, when he was out with Maitimo. His cousin held his liquor so well, it was easy to forget one’s own limitations, when keeping him company.

Even Maedhros was a little drunk tonight, however; he laughed until there were tears in his eyes, and stumbled weakly, fighting to catch his breath. When he put out one hand for balance, he was tall enough to catch Finrod by the shoulder, rather than by the arm, and Finrod staggered too, but manfully kept to his feet. He had a sudden vague horror of the possibility of having to carry his cousin home, dressed as he was; Maedhros remained as slim as ever, and naturally walked as light-footed as his father, but his height meant his weight must surely be considerable. 

“Steady on,” Finrod urged, attempting at sobriety, and trying to adjust his cousin’s grip for better balance. Maedhros’ hand, unsteady and not expecting the movement, slipped from Finrod’s shoulder to his chest, and where his fingers from habit reached to take hold of waistcoat or lapel, there was of course nothing there except bare skin. It had come in fashion the previous spring—to Maedhros’ great interest, and Finrod’s consternation—for ladies’ gowns to be cut scandalously low across the bodice, and Violet always had insisted on fashion.

Maedhros jerked back, eyes comically wide and one hand flying up to cover his mouth in a pantomime of dismay, and that was enough to set Finrod off again. 

“Finrod! I had not known _you_ to be so bold.”

“Mercy,” Finrod begged, wiping at his eyes. “Maedhros, please don’t. We shall have folk looking out their bedroom windows in a moment, and then what shall we do? Maedhros, I am serious. Oh, God. If my father hears—“

“Your father,” Maedhros announced cheerfully, swaying slightly as he readjusted the kerchief a little more modestly across Finrod’s exposed chest, “would be heartily amused. That’s what I like about him, you know; his humor.”

“Hm. And what would your father do, if he saw _you_ in skirts?” 

“Oh, never speak to me again, I reckon. Disown me. Although, upon consideration, he _has_ mentioned on more than one occasion that he still wishes he had a daughter in the family, instead of only us boys. Perhaps he would be amused, too.”

“I cannot imagine _your_ father amused.”

“Hm.” It was Maedhros’ turn to look pensive, but he did not elaborate further. Instead he paused to attempt at making out their reflection in a closed shop window, and then laughed again, throwing one arm chummily over Finrod’s shoulders. 

“I won’t tell your father if you won’t tell mine,” Maedhros said, as they resumed their clumsy walk back to Valinor Park: Finrod’s clumsiness from the unholy combination of maneuvering over cobblestones in hampering skirts while more than slightly drunk,   
and Maedhros’ clumsiness mainly from having to help prop Finrod up as they went along. 

“It is a bargain,” Finrod agreed. “And what about Uncle Fingolfin?”

“Oh, no! No, he must never find out, either. Nor Fingon. Oh, God. Finrod, for the love of Christ, never tell Fingon. He would be mortified. Swear that it shall be our secret, won’t you? There’s a good fellow.”

“Of course I swear,” Finrod answered, seizing a handful of his skirts in one hand and shaking them demonstratively. “ _I_ am the one traveling the streets of New York in lady’s clothing, after all, Maitimo; I don’t see what _you_ have to be so concerned over.”

“Well, I’m the one walking with you, aren’t I? And anyway I look a fool in your trousers, they’re four inches short at least, and not my color at all.”

“If you hate them so much, we could always trade.”

“What, here on the street corner? _Jesus_ , Finrod—“

“Oh, _damn_ you,” Finrod cried, half-laughing again in hushed exasperation, and giving his cousin a very unladylike clout to the ribs. Maedhros yelped—stumbled—righted himself, laughing. “I know you planned this all along. I _swear_ you lost to the girls on purpose, just for a lark. I shall tell Fingon so, if he ever _does_ find out, and you shall deserve whatever he says to you.”

“Finrod, think of my reputation!”

“A plague on your reputation!”

They quieted as they approached the Feanorian house at last, sobered a little by its imposing grandeur. The gate was not locked; it swung open almost silently under Maedhros’ hand. Finrod squinted at the front door, swaying.

“What about Maglor?”

“I am afraid that as for Maglor,” his cousin said, straightening up with a rueful hitch at his short sleeves as they reached the front steps and could both see the lamp still burning in the parlor, “we are about to both find out his reaction together. Our pact of secrecy must widen. Finrod, I shall distract him while you slip past, and maybe he will not notice the petticoats. Make a run for my bedroom; I shall escape quick as I can to join you. And if he breathes a word of this to anyone, Fingon or otherwise, I am counting on you to help hold him down when I drown him.”

*

Finrod had already helped himself to one of his cousin’s nightshirts and had stretched out upon his cousin’s grand bed by the time Maedhros was able to escape Maglor’s scolding downstairs. Eyes closed, half-asleep, he heard Maedhros’ careful hand upon the door handle, and then the sound of him rummaging about for a candle in the dark. 

“Finrod. Are you sleeping?”

“Hm.”

A pause, as the candle was lit, and as Maedhros undoubtedly noticed the lavender dress now draped over the back of his desk chair. He laughed, softly, and only a little ruefully. 

“That could have gone worse,” he announced lightly, pulling open a drawer to collect his own change of clothing before he departed for the guest room. 

Finrod snorted, then yawned. Faintly, from downstairs, came the sound of emphatic, agitated piano. 

“I hate you,” he mumbled into the pillows, affectionately. 

There came a pause again, and the sound of the closing drawer. 

“No you don’t,” said Maedhros, quietly. 

Finrod grinned, drowsy, and sighed. 

“No,” he agreed, as he finally succumbed to sleep: “No; I don’t suppose I do.”


End file.
